by Geri Krotow
Security cameras were mounted under the roof’s overhang on the four corners of the building; she’d only discovered them once she was up under the eaves herself.
She flattened herself to the side of the wall and started to inch her way back toward the opposite side of the building where she’d noticed the other, probably faux, doors. But she had to determine if she could see inside the structure and make out what the hell was going on. Trina sent a quick text to Mike, telling him to head in. She’d wait for him to apprehend.
As she crept along the twenty yards of solid steel building, she was conscious of the puppy shadowing her, quiet and stealthy. She couldn’t risk the noise of shooing the dog away, and was annoyed that he distracted her at all. Her fingers hit the corner of the building and she made sure the area was clear before she turned the corner and made straight for the doors. The security cameras had to not be working, or she’d have been stopped by someone by now.
When she lined up with the “doors,” her fingertips felt the smoothness of the corrugated steel—and the paint that had been used to create the illusion of entrances. Except in the middle of the one large garage-style door, where she immediately felt the cut of steel-on-steel. An opening. Maybe not one that was used much, but an entrance or exit of some sort. Further inspection revealed a painted-over window. She slipped a razor out of her front pocket. Slowly and carefully scraped away the black pigment. She kept her free hand over the working one—she didn’t want to alert anyone inside with a flash of light. The paint was thick and chipped off in the tiniest of pieces. That was fine. All she needed was a pupil’s worth.
As soon as she had enough of an opening, she stood on tiptoe and looked inside. Shelves, all stocked with what appeared to be cans of paint—no shocker there—and ammo, the boxes emblazoned with US ARMY. It was hard to see much farther than five or six rows of shelving.
Ammo. Crap. She couldn’t see past the stacked army boxes. Double crap. Either this was some kind of clandestine military ammunitions depot she didn’t know about, or she’d been mistakenly sent to get this Vasin dude at his place of business. He was supposed to be alone, separated from the ROC and far from its head honcho, Dima Ivanov. Intelligence reports revealed that Vasin might have had a falling-out with Dima and that’s why he was working alone. That was another factor that supposedly made him an easy suspect to bring in. But it looked like Vasin had decided to protect himself in the process. And whoever was with him in the building.
Trina sank down onto her haunches, lifting her cowboy hat enough to wipe the sweat off her brow and out of her eyes. She had two choices: go in with Mike, or call for backup and wait to go in with Mike.
She sent a quick text to both Mike and their team leader, Corey. They had to understand that Vasin was not alone, and she told them that she needed direction on whether to abort the apprehension or not. While she waited for the return texts, she headed back to the front of the building. Her boss would need exact details for whatever additional law enforcement they sent in, and she wanted to tell him the license plate numbers on the ATVs.
A sharp rustle behind her startled her and she whipped around and trained her weapon on the source. She let out a sigh of relief as it was only the puppy, making funny growling noises as he ran in a circle in front of her. Her relief turned to trepidation as she realized he was trying to tell her something.
“What, boy?” She mouthed the words as the back of her neck prickled. The tiny animal didn’t want her to go any further and was trying to keep her from moving forward. Intuition tightened her gut and her hold on her weapon but as an explosion sounded in the building she realized she might be too late.
Chapter 2
Rob had done it. He’d convinced Vasin that he was worth keeping alive. For a bit longer, anyhow.
It was enough time to get hold of the tear gas that was on the shelf. If that was what was in the box marked US ARMY TEAR GAS, that is. He’d also spotted several box cutters scattered around the shelves.
“I have to piss.” He spoke to the ROC member through swollen lips, dried blood tasting foul from where his teeth had cut through his cheeks with each blow from Vasin earlier. He played along with Vasin’s order to let him use the bathroom.
“No funny business, or phwwwt.” One of Vasin’s men swiped his finger across his neck while his smug smirk dared Rob to challenge him. Rob had no doubt that the finger would become a switchblade with little provocation. He also knew he’d take this little jerk down.
“I can’t go without my hands, man.”
“Let him go, Aleksey.” Vasin’s voice slurred from the vodka, but the thug listened to him nonetheless. Vasin’s word was law, drunk or sober, superseded only by Ivanov’s.
Two clicks of the very knife Rob feared freed his wrists. Painful jolts of pins and needles hit his arms, hands, as his blood flow returned full force. He fought to flex his fingers and roll his shoulders.
“I give you both but you only need one for your small dick.” The man with the smirk laughed at his poor humor. Rob remained silent and waited for the feeling to return to his hands and fingers.
“The bathroom?” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“The bathroom for you is over there.” Aleksey took him past the ammo and to a small latrine, which was little more than a hole in the ground. Nothing Rob hadn’t experienced before.
Aleksey left him alone so that he could walk over to the table where Vasin sat. He shot down a glass of vodka that Vasin had poured for him, his ura an underscore to the laughter and leers at Rob from the other men. That was the Russian military response to a toast, or more historically, a battle cry similar to the U.S. Marine Corps’ oorah. Aleskey, and the others, were trying to intimidate him.
Have your fun now, suckers.
As they mocked him, he mapped out his route and plan of attack. It might be his last. But he’d have accomplished his mission—take out Vasin and in the process, Ivanov. Rob wouldn’t be the one to actually kill Ivanov, but he’d make damned sure the other LEAs knew where to find him with little effort.
Trina.
He couldn’t risk not surviving this mission, after all.
Because Rob knew Ivanov was in this building, or somewhere very nearby. Most likely in a basement. The type of underground, clandestine, over-the-top living structure that ROC was famous for. Ingenious locations with even more clever hideaways.
Rob forced himself to urinate, finding that indeed, he’d had to go. Funny how pain distracted one from basic needs.
“Can’t find it, you capitalist pig?” Vasin laughed and slammed down another empty shot glass. Rob bided his time, acting as if he were fumbling with his zipper.
Truth was, he’d be hard-pressed to re-zip his pants right now with his fingers still so stiff and swollen. But he had enough range of motion to open a box with a box cutter, grab a tear gas canister and launch it. He’d use his teeth to get to it if he had to.
Another boisterous toast. The men clinked glasses and Robert ran.
“The agent!” Slurred words from one of them.
“Don’t shoot him! We need his information!” Vasin unwittingly gave Rob the precious seconds he needed by making the men halt in their tracks.
He grabbed the box off the shelf and heard the yells, the sounds of vodka-hindered feet. The carton opened with little effort, spilling dozens of canisters at his feet. He kicked them toward his attackers as he clutched one, armed it and threw. It landed in the center of the group of four men. Then he shoved against the shelf in front of them as hard as his battered body allowed him to. A loud squeaking rent the air as the metal contraption yielded. He looked at his captors as the canister fell toward them. The men wore various expressions of shock, fear and dread. They reflexively reached for their weapons, despite their boss’s order, as if bullets would stop hundreds of pounds of metal and ammunition aimed at them. It was too late. The shelves came
down, and he didn’t stick around to see how many were trapped. The loud crack of the detonator was immediately followed by the appearance of a misty cloud of tear gas. Rob held his breath and ran for the exit.
* * *
Trina texted her boss again with the minimal vital details of her plan and what she expected but still hoped she wouldn’t find in the warehouse. Before she added a third text, he called her.
“Get out, Trina. Don’t go in there alone. One explosion leads to more. Mike is on the east side of the clearing if you need him, but I want you both out of there now.”
She heard her boss’s voice over the Bluetooth connection in her earbuds and let out a sigh of relief. “I was thinking the same thing,” she whispered as she looked at the puppy and decided not to tell Corey that she was taking one thing from this mission—a new family member. She and Jake had the space now, so why not?
“Stop! Where are you now exactly, Trina?” Corey’s sharp query startled her.
“Next to the building. Heading out.” She read off the GPS coordinates, in case Corey had lost her signal. Keeping her voice in a whisper, she crouched down to grab the puppy.
Corey swore over the connection. “Damn it, change of plans. Trina, you’re closest. I need you to get someone who’s in there, from another op. Damn these mixed comms!” Corey was obviously taking a call from another LEA.
“Who, Corey?”
“Hang on.” She heard another loud bang inside the building and the puppy jumped, moving away from her. Damn it! “Robert Bristol. Don’t come back without him.”
“Got it.” And she’d get the man. There wasn’t time to ask Corey specifically who the man was, if he was wanted by the agents from another op, or was LEA himself. It’d all come out soon enough.
She shot one last look at the door she’d surveyed. Was she going to have to go in there, after all? This Robert Bristol dude had better know she was going to get him. Looking around the building and the surrounding forest, she saw no one. Disappointment weighed on her. As she turned back toward the building, the door burst open and a hunched over yet ambulatory man barreled out amid a cloud of white smoke. Coughing as if he had TB, he appeared a little dazed. Tear gas. Crap.
Trina drew her weapon and pointed it him. “Stop. Hands above your head.”
The man complied, albeit stiffly. She watched his arms rise and noted his hands. Why were her eyes drawn to his hands? They were so familiar. As if she’d seen them, seen him before. She stared at his face. Her insides froze. Was this how it felt to lose your mind? How crazy felt? Because she felt like she was looking at a ghost.
“Gotta go, boss.” She spoke into her mic, never taking her eyes off the man. The man who looked exactly like the man she’d given her heart to years ago. Justin Berger.
“Trina, wait—” She yanked her earbuds and Corey’s voice out. She left her phone on, though. Headquarters would at least have a recording of whatever was about to go down. Hopefully it wasn’t her sanity.
“Stay still. Identify yourself.”
The man looked stunned as he turned toward her voice, arms raised. Tears streamed down his cheeks thanks to tear gas. They fell from dark eyes. That is, one of them was a dark brown, the other swollen to a narrow slit. His body, at least the parts visible to her, was unbelievably bruised. He wore only a T-shirt that had once been greenish but was filthy and torn, and his cargo pants were unzipped, and God, she could see his briefs and what should be tucked away inside his briefs.
Acting on pure instinct born of years of training, she visually inspected him from head to toe, looking for weapons. Even if he had a weapon he appeared too battered to use it, but Trina knew no matter how much pain either a criminal trying to escape, or a trained agent was in, they’d figure out a way. She still wasn’t sure who this man was—friend or foe. Her orders were to get him but she’d rescued agents from tight spots before, under the guise of taking them into custody. She had to treat him as suspicious until either he proved he wasn’t, or Corey told her to trust him.
“Keep your hands up and turn around.”
He complied, and she swiftly approached him and patted him down. No weapons, but the way his pants fit him, the way his form was achingly familiar, had her wondering again if she was having some sort of psychotic break.
He had an air about him that distracted her, made her think she knew him. She shook her head, her weapon still on him. Focus. She needed focus.
“Turn around. Who the hell are you?” Her voice usually commanded response, but this man only stared after he turned around to face her. He lowered his arms.
“Keep them up.”
“You know I’m not armed. Look, our time is short—”
“Who are you?”
“Rob Bristol. Who the hell are you?” He was her last-minute target, after all. She forced out a breath.
“US Marshal Lopez. You’re coming with me.”
Gunfire erupted before he could reply, and “Rob” looked at her. Because she was beginning to feel that she wasn’t crazy. That this was Justin.
“Who were you here for, Marshal? Originally?”
She stared him down, refusing to answer. Was it hotter than she thought? Was she dehydrated? Because this man, this apparition in front of her, looked and sounded exactly like Justin.
The ghost spoke. “I’m with the government, too. There are too many of them for us to handle.”
Trina remained silent.
“Let’s go before they kill us both.” His voice was taut and he’d obviously had the crap knocked out of him, but the tone, the way he measured each word even under pressure, it was unique. She’d only ever known one other man to act like this in the midst of a firefight.
“I don’t suppose you have ID?” She’d never had to guess at whether she was taking in a good guy or not. They’d always been bad guys.
“You’re kidding me, right? Look at me. I’ve had the crap knocked out of me.” The harsh words softened with a tone she’d thought was only for her. It was the same method Justin had used to convince her his tactic was best.
She was going to put in for two weeks’ leave the minute she was back at headquarters. Mental health preventive. Because she had to be losing it. Right here, in the middle of what was supposed to be a routine apprehension.
More gunfire and a cloud of what she assumed was tear gas poured from the crack under the door. Once again she tried to stare him down, make him flinch. “Can you run?”
Rob nodded once, his hands still high.
“Follow me.”
She ran not away from the building, but toward it, and she sensed his hesitation, his desire to run in the opposite direction. When she held up the key she’d hid in her pocket and pointed at the ATV she was headed for, he followed.
As they ran, the puppy loped alongside her. “Buddy, there’s no room at the inn. Go home!” She spoke under her breath as she ran, shooing away the too-cute creature. Robert Bristol needed a quick ride out of here, and she intended to keep them both alive while doing it.
This was the craziest apprehension she’d ever had, especially since she wasn’t leaving with her target but a stranger her mind thought was Justin. And now a puppy was trying to join them. As if it were all some kind of fun escapade and not life-and-death circumstances. They came up to the first ATV and she faced the gaunt man, her Justin-come-to-life, ready to put her weapon on him again if she had to.
“Raise your hands again.” She looked him in the eyes and faltered. Blinked. What the hell was wrong with her? Justin was dead. This man who looked like the one man she would have ever been willing to sacrifice everything for had to be a genetic anomaly. He couldn’t be Justin. Justin was dead. Killed—in action in a war-torn Middle Eastern country during a civil war—five years ago tomorrow. A date etched in her mind but seared on her heart. The part that had never healed.
The eye t
hat wasn’t swollen widened, and she ignored the screaming of her subconscious. So the doppelgänger had the same eye color.
“Who are you?”
He didn’t say anything. With no fanfare she patted him down more intensely this time, noting again that he was clean of any weapons. He’d sustained several bruises and a possible fracture on his ulna. Yet he still held his arm up. His muscles were tight under his dirty olive T-shirt and cargo pants, but that wasn’t her problem. Or advantage. His ass, at once familiar and strange, could solve her obvious mental stress. Justin had had a tattoo on his butt. Certainly this man did not.
She forced herself to not try to find said tattoo and straightened. She looked him in his good eye. “Mess with me and I’ll kill you. Got it?”
“Roger.”
Gunshots erupted again, and this time they were followed by the sounds of footsteps outside the building. Three men had emerged from the structure, but Trina didn’t wait to ID them. She had her man and she had wheels. Time to make their escape.
The puppy’s whimper tugged at the part of her that had nothing to do with being a hardened US marshal. Huge, liquid-chocolate-brown eyes pleaded for her mercy as he sat at her feet.
“Damn it.” Trina reached down and grabbed the pup and handed him to the man named Rob. “Here. Keep him between us. Use your good arm to hang on to me. Get on.”
The puppy seemed to sense this was for the best as he settled without fanfare between Trina and her captive. Rob Bristol reached his good arm loosely around her middle, keeping the puppy safe on the seat. The tiny sparks she imagined dancing on her skin weren’t any kind of awareness; she simply noticed that his fingers brushed her waist. He’s probably a criminal anyway, not a government agent or LEA.
And he wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be, Justin, no matter how many times she’d fantasized that Justin had somehow survived that secret mission all those years ago. They’d never recovered his body, though. That had always haunted her.